The Glittering
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: In which the Boy-Who-Lived became the Boy-Who-Made-Friends-With-Inanimate-Objects-Deals-With-Loneliness-And-Tries-To-Figure-Out-What-Truly-Happened-When-The-Americans-Had-Their-Own "Tea Party." Dashes are awesome by the way.


Sometimes he catches himself gazing out into the distance.

It was a careless thing to do, especially when one was residing with the Dursely's. Especially the Dursely's; for one, their breath smelled atrocious when they yelled at him. But that was all right, he supposes, as he weighs the pros and cons of getting a slap from his dear Auntie or getting yelled at.

He leans against the counter, still acting casual.

It wasn't that he couldn't handle his cousins it was just that… He finds himself staring at a certain object lying around on the kitchen counter.

He scowls with familiar memories filtering through his brain wincing at the painful memories. He can hear the clattering of knives and precious Auntie screaming at him to "Boil the eggs, else I'll make sure that you'll getting nothing to eat!" However, on that particular day, he remembers vividly, the stupid eggs were already boiled, so he overcooked them…and he was punished.

Blowing back the unruly bangs that annoyed his face, he leaned on the palm of his hand, and he found himself staring into space again. Call it magic or not, but he could feel such forces were at work. Was it a type of locator spell that he had activated when he practicing late at night? He wonders and rebukes himself if that was the case. Perhaps years of being Dudley's punching bag was finally getting to him. Tiredly, he goes into the kitchen, only going through the motions.

Briefly, he remembers that Auntie Petunia requested—no, old hags don't request, they shrilly demand—that he cut lettuce for tonight's dinner. Pfft… as if it would satisfy the much larger and beefier of the males in the family. Namely, as he shudders in revulsion, his cousins that could beat him down to a pulp of he tried anything "magic-ky." Didn't they realize that they were far below him to consider the threat of exterminating them once and for all?

Just for a second, he wonders what it would belike to feel their last heartbeats fade away… The whites of their eyes finally staring listlessly at the ceiling… Laughter… Oh laughter.

He shakes his head in disbelief as he opens the refrigerator door and procures a cabbage head. He stares at it in full concentration before staring off into space again. Sometimes, he wonders if his blood relatives even have brains. Sure Uncle Vernon—bless his ugly drilled out soul—was the boss of a company that sold drills, but did he know how to operate one? He bet that he probably yelled at his employees and demand tips on how to torture his nephew.

Dudley was no better in that department. He knew that one day Dudley was going to end up homeless on the street or—and this is what he feared most—he was going to be play a major role in business and be the boss. God bless England's economy should Dudley—God forbid as he swallows his own bile—become the Prime Minister.

But Petunia, at least she had SOME type of brains in that painfully small horse-y head of hers. From what he could tell, if he was telling the truth, she had some motherly instincts about her. She did try to make him look presentable—by chopping off all his hair that one time. She gave him REALLY healthy food to live by—oatmeal Mondays, oatmeal Tuesdays, oh look! There was a change in schedule. Celery Wednesdays. At least she taught him basic tasks that he would need to survive when they kicked him out. Mainly—as he thought with a grimace—washing windows, cooking for the expense of his family (BLEGH!) washing clothing, and the worst that can be done to a growing teenage boy. Working hand on foot on his aunt was THE worst…aside from facing Voldemort head on. At least he was tolerable and smart.

But, as he looks at the cabbage, it wasn't so bad. He glared at the vegetable when he realized the implications of what he thought inside his consciousness.

"I meant the cabbage not the dumbbells I live with," he mutters as if someone can hear him. Which, maybe could have happened, knowing that he was the prizewinner of the light side in the Wizarding War. Momentarily, he wonders if Mrs. Figg decided to get her act together and tried to become a first rate bodyguard for once. Feeling cautious, he dares stick his head out the window, just in case one of her cats was starving and needed rescue.

Turns out, as he walks back to the fridge to retrieve his original item, that it was best not to receive the yelling and the tantrums only dearest Auntie could conjure. Conjure, he laughs jokingly tom himself. Such a funny term for a woman who couldn't—read: wouldn't—do magic, even if she tried. The whole lot was prejudiced and was plain dumb. Sensing that maybe it was time to relocate somewhere else in the future, he fleetingly considered America as his new hideout.

No, he thinks to himself, didn't Americans hate British people for some odd reason? Or was it the other way around, he thinks to himself as he racks his brain? Looking back on his old NORMAL human life, there was a thing called elementary school and they learned something about the importance of tea parties…? If he remembered correctly or not, the stupid Americans played with tea and invited lobsters to watch the sacrilegious act of dumping tea…somewhere. He thanked his lucky stars that Hermione wasn't there to scold him in his lack of knowledge in the matter. Besides, how were Americans supposed to help him when all they did was desecrate tea?

Again, he thinks guiltily to himself as he slides a suitable knife from its wooden holder to carve the lettuce into salad, he was off in dreamland once again. He sighs once more as he tries to re-think his whole plan to leave the Dursley's. Wait, wasn't he supposed to be cutting the leafy greens right now? As he experiments with the way he handles the knife, he studies the way the afternoon sunlight glints of the deliciously cold metal.

Dimly, he remembers his piggy cousin going on the Internet, playing with the muggle controls and whatnot. Even with the advances in magic and his continuing familiarity with wizardry and witchcraft, his mind could not handle that while he was wasting away at the hands of Dumbledore and various other warlocks, the muggle—no ordinary—world was maturing, picking apart the flaws and refurbishing them. From what he saw on the website that Dudley frequented on some days was some muggle American thing. Did it have something to do with emotions and cutting away their fears?

The cool metal of the small blade that he grasps in his wand hand embraces the pale, milky skin of his left. Intrigued by his body's actions, he dismisses the warning bells that go off in his head. Besides, he faces death and bloody spells every single day in that 'bloody magic school!' Not his words, but his family's, he tries to reasons with himself. Heck, the school was not even British, it was on the highlands of native Scotland, he recalls.

"Bet Hermione and Ron will get a kick out of that," he laughs to himself. Then, he realizes that perhaps Mrs. Figg or someone that has him as his high priority. He also realizes with a startling conclusion—even after years of death threats he still isn't observant, is he—that he had been confessing his loneliness to a pile of mangled lettuce and a startlingly cold knife. Angry that he had let a pile of useless rubbish see his weak points in life, he nearly nicked his wrist with the blade.

Ah, he finally realizes what that muggle website was about! It was about the terms emo, wrist cutting, and acting 'cool.' Why would someone do that to himself or herself in order to make themselves 'cool?" Muggles these days, he shakes his head tiredly. Putting the knife back down, he realized once again—

"Harry! Get your ugly head out of the clouds and give me the lettuce this instant!" The old witch herself—he shook his head rapidly. That would be insulting numerous classmates and teachers. So what if he was lovable and lots of power and fame; if you get right down to it, all women were potentially Femi-Nazis. Dearly cherished Petunia was not really a feminist, but she was close enough to draw fear out of him.

"But I already cut it up for salad," he digresses to his aunt. Unfortunately, that brought on an onslaught of questions that shouldn't be answered. Ever.

"And what are you doing in the kitchen? Are you stealing food from us!" She cried out in her shrilly-accented voice. "My God, VERNON, HARRY'S STEALING FOOD FROM THE FRIDGE!"

If he hadn't dealt with his stinky relatives for the majority of his life, he would have seriously considered sticking the knife that was inches from his hand and into her—

Her high heels clacked ominously across the room, eager to report to the head male of the family.

"Am I that low to do that," he asked ridiculously to his newfound friends. The knife that waited by his pallid glittered brightly as he continued to stare into space. Slowly, he grasped the handle of the blade and stared off into space.

The knife just kept on glittering as the lump of lettuce sat sadly.

And Ron called Luna, loony.

Strangely enough, Harry felt depressed over that statement.


End file.
